


Sunday, wake up

by glovered



Series: Kissing Curse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: kissing curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-05
Updated: 2011-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something supernatural causes spontaneous boy makeouts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday, wake up

**Author's Note:**

> Standalone, but stuck somewhere in At the mouth.

Bobby's been to the Sioux Falls diner with them before. When they're working a case, the three of them have a tendency to stay up all night searching through the library he calls his living room, and when by 9am they've either come up with nothin,' or, more than often than not, they've come up with somethin', it's just too damn mid-morning to be making food for themselves.

A recluse, a known drunk and troublemaker, at first he went on the sly. He'd wear his hat the entire meal, and make sure to sit with his back to the door just in case the sheriff or some other towns member who knew him as a wanted party caught sight of him with his defenses nearly down, seated with John's boys. After what Dean refers to as the Night of the Living Dead, though, everyone who knows what's what in the town takes him pretty seriously, and he don't gotta huddle over his damn Eggos any more.

This morning, however, this morning- it makes him wanna pull down the brim and just hide behind a menu like in the old days, what with the way Sam and Dean are carrying on.

"Will you boys just," he says, but his voice trails off at a grunt. The suggestion of what he's going to say next is enough to still them where they are. They're seated across from him, normal as anything, but he can sense it like he's got the senses of that spandex-wearing spider monkey, and those senses are tingling.

"It's just," he says. "Diner benches are only so big, it's true, but so is this town, if you get my drift. Saving all these people's lives or not- "

"Whoo, Night of the Living Dead Two-Thousand and Ten!" Dean laughs, slinging an arm along the back of the bench. "Good times."

"That is no joke, boy," he says, and Dean sobers, especially now that Sam's frowning at him, too. It carries more weight, that look, because they haven't seen it in nigh on a year and a half.

Dean clears his throat, glancing quickly at the two of them. "Sorry."

"I'm just sayin," Bobby says. "You boys are in a hell of a pickle, and I know this curse ain't your fault, but all the rest of folks here are gonna see is- well, you know-"

"Can we just-" Sam's brow scrunches up, and he looks highly uncomfortable, like it pains him to think about, let alone do. At least one of them's got some sense. "-not talk about it? At least until we get back to looking for a solution?"

"Fine by me," Bobby says. "And I mean that."

And even though Dean's just treating the whole thing like it's a damn joke, boy's gotta defend himself somehow from all the crazy shenanigans are pulled on them just about every damn day. Hell, if he were Dean, he'd wanna get up close, too. Maybe not like that exactly, how Dean's fingertips are brushing along the back of Sam's shoulder every minute or so off the back of the bench, and how he's all lucid-eyed and memorizing Sam's profile from ten inches away. But yeah, if he were Dean, Bobby'd wanna press his hand where Sam's soul is back to rattling safe in its little box of flesh and Death, to anchor him physically to this earth.

Sam's frowning still. Every time they get quiet like this, he invariably starts in on apologizing for some new fragment of memory that's come bobbing to the surface. It's fucking terrifying, how quick they're coming back, and Sam is about to bring up another one, it's obvious from his consternation, but then he loses the trail of it when he catches Dean smiling kind of silly at his side.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?" Sam says. "God, you're such a creep, man. Stop smiling at me like that. You're always staring."

"I'm not staring at you, Sam. And can't a man be happy his brother's got his soul back? Hallelujah."

"Yeah, whatever."

Sam leans away, out of the circle of Dean's arm, and Bobby shoves the next thought down as quick as it came, that it looks like Sam is withholding sex to make his point. Not that they've been doing that, no sir, as far as Bobby's been told it stops at the mouth. Who ever heard of a makeout curse, though? Part of him is doubting it, and when they get home, first thing Bobby's gonna do is search out an incantation to purge his mind of that whole line of thought.

"Besides," Dean's arguing. "Looking around the room's not a crime. Not my fault you're so huge you take up my entire periphery."

"Seriously, Dean, it's freaking annoying."

"You're freaking annoying. Even Cas said so, remember?" His voice goes monotone. "Sam, your voice is grating. Go find your brother. He is more awesome than you and doesn't listen to Morissey."

Bobby's heavily reminded of the boys when they were young, hearing Sam's shouts down the hall, from out back, "Stop _looking_ at me, Dean! Uncle Bobby! Dean won't stop bothering me!"

After the armies of Heaven and Hell, an apocalypse begun and averted- after all that, nothing, actually, has changed.

The waitress comes to take their orders, thank God. She looks to Sam first, because he has this confused, pained expression on his face, and says, "You know what you want, hun?"

Sam scrunches up his face even further, squinting at the menu like he hasn't even thought about what he wants.

"He'll have the waffles, extra syrup, and two sides of bacon. Oh, and a coffee."

"Sorry," Sam says to her. "That's what he's ordering. I'll have eggs over-easy, rye toast, coffee black, and a side of fruit, please."

"Comin' right up, sugar," she says. And Dean actually shifts beside Sam, raps the knuckles of his other hand softly against the vinyl tabletop. Nancy doesn't notice a thing. She takes Bobby's order and leaves.

"Oh, damn," Sam says. "I forgot my wallet in the car."

He pats demonstratively at the legs of his jeans under the table, and makes to get up.

"I got this one, boys," Bobby says.

"No, Bobby. You've done so much for us, at least let me buy you breakfast."

"Soul back and suddenly he's a saint," Bobby grumbles, but they can both tell he's pleased. Sam's back, and despite the bad blood between them sometimes, he knows he's gonna be thankful for that every damn day.

After Sam's left, he and Dean sit in a sort of quiet they've developed over the past half-year. The sounds of the other diners are loud, the clinking and the normal-voiced conversation. Bobby just sits in it, until Dean says: "You think we're gonna catch this thing?"

"Like I said, it might not even be a thing; for all we know, it could be some ancient curse you guys set off somewhere along the way, on some other job, and it's just now makin' itself known."

Dean nods, glancing absently out the window.

Bobby thinks back to what they know, which, admittedly, isn't much. He's betting on some woman scorned who happened to know a bit of witchcraft, that sort of thing. But his main issue with the whole scenario, the real red flag, isn't how those boys can't seem to keep their mouths off of one another, but that when he'd asked "When did you boys start feeling the effects," real straightforward, neither one of them had answered truthfully, Bobby could see it, plain as day.

"It could be anything." Dean taps his ring against the tabletop, arrythmic-like, and Bobby continues, "We'll find something."

"I'll be right back," Dean says abruptly.

"Now where in the hell do you think you're going?" He's not mad, but just- If they really want to stop this thing, they oughtta start by not getting each other alone. But Dean, for his part, looks completely miffed by Bobby's question, like he doesn't have a damn clue.

"One thing Sam didn't factor into his genius plan," he says. "Is I'm the one with the keys." He scoots out of the booth, saying, "always have been, always will be," and damn whistles as he pushes his way out the double doors of the diner.

Bobby takes a calming breath. There's a sense of doom to this thing, but of a queer sort.

Nancy comes up with their coffees and stands with a hand at her hip, looking out the window.

"Those aren't your boys," she says.

Bobby follows her gaze to where Dean is ambling up to the car in the parking lot. It's a bright scene, it's all golds and blues, in high contrasts to the dusky morning-feel here inside the diner. Sam has stopped with his hand at the handle where he'd been tugging a bit to see if maybe it was unlocked. Bobby can't see the marking from here, but knows Dean's examining that devil's trap they're always redrawing in white pencil on the hood, no matter how many times Bobby told them to just etch the damn thing in, or paint it, cuz they were never going to stop needing it there.

Dean hadn't allowed it. He and Sam'd had gotten the thing tattooed on their chests a few summers back, and hadn't even told Bobby for a couple of months so that one night, when he'd suggested it himself, Dean had stilled at the fridge where he'd been grabbing some beers, and Sam, fingers stilling on the keys of his laptop, had said, after a time, "Already got that covered," and then resumed typing. Bobby had laughed and laughed at their discomfort, at how they'd been fine getting it writ right over the heart for a permanent time, yet wouldn't do anything that might ruin a good paint job.

Nancy places the mugs on the table, one by one, moving him from these thoughts.

"Naw, they're not mine," he says. "But good kids. Real good."

He wants to shake them both and say, "I know you guys are so far on the outskirts of civilization you forget there's anyone else, but snap out of it." A curse is a passing thing if you nip it in the bud, but this one is a devious son of a bitch, creeping in where a person'd see it least, some cloying thing, acting in plain daylight on the senses they depend on most, gut feelings.

"Food'll be up in a sec," Nancy tells him after another moment.

Bobby's unresponsive and hears her move away, but not before she plonks the coffee pot on the table; doubtless he looks like he needs it. He can feel sand in his eyes and the grit of ages in his teeth, but somehow, watching this thing play out, he feels nothing like remorse.

He can't look away, even as Dean walks his fingers down the back hood of the Impala and then follows his hand as it smooths its way up the curve of the window frame to casually rest on the hot black of the roof. Bobby feels only some edge of worry, like don't they know what they could be messing with? There's something good they've got going again, something hunters need down to their bones, and they're meddling, feeling the edges. Don't they know there's more than a wall in Sam's brain they should be watching out for? They're likely gonna pull each other so close one of them's gonna leave again.

He doesn't want to see them mess it up, but somehow he can't stop watching as Dean waves an arm world-ward, expounding on something, and whatever he's saying has got Sam laughing, head thrown back and hand leaving the car door to slip into his pocket so he can just idle there. Whether he's meant to or not, Dean's come close within reach, within a foot, and Sam quiets, smiling, a direct look down the couple inches between them, because it doubtless feels as though the world's fallen away around them.

Sam takes Dean's face in his hands, a strong thumb at the jaw, and Bobby does look away then, right after Dean just leans in like it's nothing, and slides a hand up around to the back of Sam's neck to urge him down. They're kissing like it's forever, Sam pressing Dean against the car out in the quiet heat of the morning, mouth opening to him slow, making it thorough, like there's no need to rush.

And in a way there isn't. These boys have gone into the fire and are out the other side, they've got all the time in the freakin' world.

They're still in the parking lot when the waffles arrive.


End file.
